The Low Grounds
I opened the gate and we gurgled over the cattle-guards
onto the two-track road
that became a T-line straight into the James,
East or West.
East, towards the turkeys we moved
along the authority of the trees.
Their shadows spilled over the river.
You pulled out that call from the glove-compartment.
“Almost gobbler season” you said
and rolled down my window.
I knew my duty. I pulled myself through
and held onto the roof.
And from the top of that old green Explorer
I stared up into the branches above
always searching for those babbling, nesting buffoons.